Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
I go back to the X on the wall and hold out my hand for the whip. The man who had taken over for me gives it back mid swing. Bowing his head and stepping back. His dark eyes are bloodshot and his skin tear stained. I channel all my anger into torturing the bound man, who means nothing to me. I would torture infinite souls if it meant keeping my realm secure.
All the souls I have tortured did not count.
It is my responsibility to make this man—this soul—pay for his mortal misdeeds, but the blows I land on his back have nothing to do with his sins.
They have everything to do with the looming threat of losing Persephone.
I have had enough of being threatened. I spent enough time alone in the dark to progress through all the stages of fury, and when I walked free, I found myself here. In cold, ruthless anger.
Anger that now burns, nearly singing my flesh with its power. It is distorting my thoughts. The rage will translate to action, and I cannot let it guide my hands.
Except for right now. In this moment. In the cell of another’s hell I release my rage recklessly.
Whose sins did I pay for through all those years in isolation? What right does Zeus have to hold his dominion over my head? No right.
He is not in control of her! She is mine! I nearly scream in fury but the blows are delivered in heavy silence that suffocates the room. One after the other with no pause. The screams no longer come with each blow. The man to my left drops to his knees on the floor, cowering and pleading for mercy.
There is no mercy here. There is only justice.
I breathe in and out and focus on the blows. Blood pours down the soul’s back. His screams break as his voice gives out. It will return. That is the beauty—and the horror—of souls in the Underworld. They are made to spend eternity in whatever place is deemed appropriate for them. I could whip this soul down to his bones, and his flesh would reappear, ready for me to peel away again.
I feel a presence enter behind me, but I do not look at her. Soft footsteps. My body stills at the realization. My heart pounding, a thin sheet of sweat lining the back of my neck.
My queen.
If I look at her, I will tear apart the Underworld before Zeus can touch it. If I look at her, I will destroy everything before anyone can take it from me, and that is not what I have been charged to do.
“I know what you’re capable of,” Persephone says, raising her voice to be heard above the screams and sobs.
I raise the whip. Bring it down. Repeat this three times.
I do not look at Persephone, but I feel her hesitation.
Perhaps it is not hesitation. Perhaps she is only observing me. Perhaps she knows that I am not myself. Perhaps she knows, despite her fears about her captivity, that I am… Not well.
That sends something like anger—hot and uncontrollable—through my body. I ignore it.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ve never been quite all right, my queen.” My own honesty shocks me. It disgusts me. I did not mean to give it to Persephone so easily. I did not mean to lay myself bare. “Go,” I tell her. “I have work that must be done.”
With a heavy arm, I whip the man again although my rage wanes and in its place creeps in fear. He finds his voice once again, and his screams rend the air.
Persephone does not leave. I can still feel her behind me.
She does not speak, either, but her judgement is there, burning into me like her eyes burn into my flesh. Will it never fucking end? Will I ever be free?
I grit my teeth until it hurts, but I cannot keep the words in.
“You judge me. I judge them. It is my purpose.” I hear her quick inhale, but I do not stop. “You would do well to remember your purpose, my queen.”
“Fuck you,” Persephone says breathlessly.
“You weep for mortals like your mother.” I do not contain my own judgement. “But you fail to acknowledge the righteousness of the other side. Of death and darkness. You fear it!”
“Do not mention her name when you’ve betrayed her so,” Persephone shoots back. Her engagement—her attention—is even and soothing, although it scorches me. Her eyes dart over my expression, her head held high. There cannot be one without the other. One cannot know comfort without knowing pain. For me, they will always be bound together. Even now, the idea of being comforted by her—the idea of accepting her attention, and her touch, even demanding it—rips into me like claws.
“It seems you’ve found your strength, no?”
“More like my anger.” Her voice trembles with her words. I do not think it will tremble forever. I think she will find yet more strength, and perhaps for her it will be uncomplicated. Perhaps it will feel like power without the past on its heels. “And I shall take it with me so in my absence you mustn’t suffer it.”